


Out of Body

by beschleunigte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Awkward First Times, DFAB reader, F/M, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Loss of Virginity, Moogle Search for my soul, Reader-Insert, so much giggling, why wouldn't a first time with prompto be giggly af though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 05:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10984011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beschleunigte/pseuds/beschleunigte
Summary: Communicating with Prompto proves to be very awkward, very giggly, and very useful. Apparently, this also translates to the bedroom. Especially if it's your first time.





	Out of Body

**Author's Note:**

> "Who knew your true calling was Prompto/Reader smutfic?"  
> "NOT ME, THAT'S WHO."
> 
> I need help, y'all.

"Wait, why me?"

"Why _not_ you?" Honestly, that was the most logical answer you could give. Another question. And okay, maybe this wasn't the most ideal way to bring up to someone that you wouldn't mind having your first time with them. But this was _Prompto_ you were talking about. You'd known him for long enough, spent enough days helping out with local odd errands, and enough nights spilling stories and laughter and accidental tears and insecurities on motel roofs or with your legs dangling over the edges of camping grounds, that it only made sense. 

It wasn't supposed to come out that you were still a virgin, not in the middle of your living room in Lestallum, all crossed legs and slumped forms against the couch. But that was how it happened. And that was how Prompto said that he was, too. That he could count every girl he'd spoken to coherently on one hand—and one of them was Gladio's kid sister, to boot. And now it was dangling in the open, heavy in the air, almost demanding that you either do something about it, or pretend the conversation never happened.

Prompto, for his own part, was a mess of red splotches that brought out the freckles on his cheeks and shoulders more than they probably should have. He cleared his throat. Flicked his gaze toward you. To the ground. Back up to you. "Okay," he said. "Okay, let's do it."

You blinked at him, sitting up a little straighter. "You're not just saying that because I said something, are you?"

"Nah." He managed a grin and shyly elbowed your side; the bandanna tied around his arm tickled yours. You still didn't know why he wore the damn thing. It wasn't even practical. "It's kinda like you said. If it had to be anyone, I'd rather it be you. I'd rather look dumb in front of you."

"What makes you think you'll look dumb?"

Prompto gave you a look. "Sex looks kinda dumb. It's all... tangly. Plus, O faces." 

"What, you've seen yours? Jerked it in front of a mirror or something?"

"I meant the _movies!_ " he said, with a shove and an unceremonious squawk of your name, but you'd thrown yourself back into the couch and heaved a laugh all the same. "Gods, I'm gonna go. Like, back to the Leville, go."

"Don't."

"What?"

"Do you want to? Like, really want to?"

The splotches came back, in full force. "Yeah. I want to."

This time, it was your turn to feel the heat rising to your cheeks, crawling up the back of your neck. "Then let's, um. Let's do it." A pause, and you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, a million what-ifs and types of preparation reeling through your mind like the ticker tape back home, or what was left of it. "You should probably, uh. Go to the drugstore. Right?"

"To get—"

"Yeah. Cause I don't have any. Just the other stuff."

Prompto's eyes widened. "Why do you have _that?_ "

"I have needs, too! It just... you know..." You jammed your hands into your lap, in disbelief that you were even telling him this. But then, if you were going to go forward with all this, you couldn't afford to be ashamed. Not if he was going to see parts of you that you barely even showed yourself, sometimes. "It just, makes the job a little easier."

"Oh. Well. Um." He cleared his throat, scrambling to his feet and making a beeline for his boots. "What're you gonna do while I'm gone?"

You shrugged. "Find something nice to wear? Shave, probably."

"For thirty minutes?"

"I mean..." You made an open-handed, noncommittal gesture toward the junction of your legs, and then downwards; Prompto's response was to fling the door open, walk into the doorway with his face in his hand, stumble back in for his wallet, and yank the door shut behind him on his way out.

Truth be told, it wasn't like you weren't nervous yourself. You just had a tendency to crack jokes or laugh things off to try and offset it. And he'd probably picked up on that anyway, in the midst of all his flustering. You could only imagine what was going to happen on his end, but you knew he'd come back from whatever adventure the shopping trip held for him and find you wringing your hands at the foot of the bed. You'd be sitting there in the laciest thing you could dig out of your drawers—and even that was a task only the Astrals could place upon you—underneath your clothes. And he'd know what to do. He always knew what to do. Like he was born for knowing.

It took him the better part of an hour to make it back to your apartment, but he stumbled in with a couple of plastic bags (wait, a _couple?_ ) and the lanyard with your key wrapped around his wrist. The red on his cheeks had dissipated to a light, but still very present pink, and he managed an apologetic shake of his head. "I didn't... know which size to get," he admitted. "Protip: never, _ever,_ call Gladio in the middle of the family planning aisle."

You stifled a laugh, a hand flying up to cover your mouth, and suddenly you really, _really_ wanted to know how that conversation had gone down. Maybe Prompto would tell you once this was done and over with. Pillow talk was a thing, right? It was supposed to be, wasn't it?

"C'mere." The smile you managed as you tossed a glance toward your open door was warm and a little shy all at once, and you took him by the wrist, leading him backwards into your bedroom.

It wasn't as though he'd never been in here before. You were sure he knew the lineup of your lotions and creams on your dresser like the back of his hand—especially considering he'd bought some of them for you. You'd caught the string of fairy lights on your wall glittering in his eyes sometimes, when he told you something he wanted, no, _needed_ you to carry to your grave. And sometimes he perched silent at the foot of your bed, looking for all the right words to say and coming up with nothing but the comforting slide of his fingers between your own. The way he did now, as he dropped the bags on your nightstand table and carefully pulled you toward him. "Can I ask you something?" he said.

This time, you gave him a half-smile. "You just did, silly."

Prompto half-smiled back, and shook his head. "Do we have to... date, after this?"

You swallowed. "Do you _want_ to date after this?"

He seemed to think for a second, chewing his lip as he looked toward the floor. "I don't think so." And immediately, he corrected himself. Defended himself. It broke you a little to see. "Not that I don't think you're worth dating or anything! That's not what I meant! It's more like..."

"I know," you told him as he craned his head to look up at you. You were absently rubbing your thumbs against his knuckles, and you nudged his knees apart so you could step between them. "I know what it's more like."

That was how you kissed Prompto for the first time, all shaky hands and noses bumping together and lips looking for form. It was a soft peck at first, a second, a third, where you led him along the best you could, but between kisses he coaxed you backward and got to his feet, hands skimming your sides as they settled on your waist. "I want to do it," he murmured with a smile, and you let him take the lead, swaying back and forth in front of a full-sized bed.

To his credit, Prompto was actually pretty good at kissing—or maybe he was just good at kissing you, but that seemed like an awfully conceited thing, thinking that he'd thought about this before. Still, he seemed to revel in every moment, sometimes stopping to pepper kisses all over your cheeks and forehead, sometimes experimentally mouthing the line of your jaw; that was what made him laugh against your skin, the fact that he could get you to shiver in his arms like that.

"Are the others expecting you back tonight?" you asked, teeth sinking into your lip before you stole another kiss from him.

"Not if Gladio opens his mouth." He paused for a moment, his forehead falling against your shoulder, and you giggled out of sympathy. 

Then you giggled because the kisses he pressed to your neck tickled too much, all puckered, the way he'd kissed your cheeks. "You gotta—open your mouth when you do that—"

And to his credit, Prompto was incredibly good at following directions, or—and there was that conceited thought again—he was incredibly good at doing whatever he needed to to make you feel good. His mouth was warm on your skin, his grip tight on your waist, like it grounded him, and the unexpected graze of his teeth against the crook of your neck had your knees almost buckling underneath you. He grinned at that—"Easy, there"—and tugged you forward as he lay back on the bed, coaxing you on top of him.

"This isn't so bad," he said as you straddled his hips and took his hands, pinning them on either side of his head. He was falling into that one-two-three pattern of pecks to your lips again.

"That's cause we're just kissing," you reminded him.

"Kissing you isn't so bad," he decided with a smile that melted you, and you might have forgotten how well he could fight, because he was wrangling his wrists from your grip, tugging off his gloves and pulling you down to prove his point. Maybe he _had_ kissed people before you. Or maybe he'd watched enough movies to study up. You didn't know. But whatever it was, he knew how to put emotion into it. He knew how to kiss you like each was the last. And he knew how to laugh it off when you pulled back to dot them along his shoulders, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

Or maybe he was just laughing things off like you. A little too breathless for jokes.

It took a lot of kissing, and a lot of pauses, and a lot of hands roaming over limbs and clothes, before Prompto made the move for the hem of your shirt, looking up to you for permission. You smiled and lifted your arms, and once he pulled it over your head and flung it into some corner, he actually stopped and stared, propped up on his arms. "You weren't kidding when you said you'd find something nice, huh?" he said, jerking his chin toward your bra—bright pink, with polka dots and a trim of white lace.

"It was the best I had," you replied, pushing your hair to one side so he could at least make an attempt at unclasping it, but he decided against it. "And it was only a hundred gil, give or take. A _steal._ "

"How much are they usually?"

"Like, four or five hundred."

Prompto's jaw dropped. " _Why?!_ "

"Your guess is as good as mine," you said, and you took his hands as he sat up. Of course he was staring at your chest—he was practically eye-level with it. But there was a glimmer in his eyes. Of curiosity, maybe, or a held-back want. Or both. So you rested his hands on your stomach, guided them up until they molded to fit the curve of your chest. "You can touch them," you murmured, "if you want."

He looked at you like he was searching, and gave an experimental squeeze. You encouraged him with a barely audible gasp and a gentle arch of your back, and he choked out a nervous laugh before pressing his mouth to your collarbone, trailing toward the tops of your breasts and in between. You couldn't help but giggle—for one thing, it tickled, and for another, he did look kind of silly with a face full of chest—but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he laughed right along with you, fingers reaching to trace the dip on your back. He kept it up when you pushed his shirt up in turn, mapping out the planes of his stomach and chest, and maybe it tickled for him, too. But his hand on your back soothed you, even as he fumbled with the clasp of your bra and let you pull his shirt off.

"Hold on, I want to figure it out," he insisted, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration—which was all well and good, because the more time he spent trying to figure it out, the more time you had to kiss him. To coax his tongue out to play with yours. To slide your hands over his torso and graze your nails along his sides and giggle against his open mouth at his knee-jerk reactions. But he did manage to undo it, and despite how little you spent on it he still laid it aside with care. "Five hundred gil," he muttered in disbelief, rolling you onto your back and taking a nipple into his mouth without so much as a guide. 

Maybe it _was_ all those movies.

You shivered, a whine tumbling from your lips, and he had the sense to reach up and circle the other with his thumb. For a moment his gaze reached yours, full of questions and the need for reassurance, but the most you could give him was the way your head tilted back against your pillows, and the way your heels dug into the bed as your hips rose to meet his of their own accord. That seemed to be enough for him, because the more you squirmed, and the more sounds you made, the more attention he paid, sometimes switching between them, sometimes fitting each in one hand and leaning up to kiss your throat.

"Doing okay?" he asked, and you nodded, cradling the back of his head and pulling him up for one more kiss.

"Can you take off my pants?" you asked in return; it was the first time you stuttered all evening.

Prompto picked up on it, and smiled, fingers hooking in the belt loops of your jeans before they made for the button. It wasn't the one swift motion people probably expected; it was a yank here, a tug there, a _hold on a sec, almost got it._ (Nobody really tells you that pushing pants down to the ankles is the hardest part of getting them off horizontally.) But you managed to kick them off, and Prompto was smiling at your underwear, and _you_ were smiling at _Prompto._

"What?"

"They're just so _cute,_ " he gushed, bending to kiss your stomach just above the lacy waistband. "They don't even match your bra."

They didn't. They were grey, spattered with yellow hearts that were starting to wear. "Like I said—" you started to explain, but Prompto cut you off.

"I like it that way." His hands were trembling as they rested on your thighs—subtle, but enough for you to notice. It was easier to feel when it was just bare skin against bare skin.

It was easier to feel the scratch of his wristbands, too. "Aren't you gonna take those off?" you asked.

"What?" He grinned, locks of blond hair starting to fall into his eyes. "You don't think they make me look hot?"

"First of all, you're objectively hot, so that doesn't count. Second, they make you look like you're about to do things we _definitely_ shouldn't be doing for a first time."

Prompto didn't laugh at the second joke. In fact, his face seemed to fall a little, the way faces fall when hearts swell. "You actually think I'm hot?"

"Uh." You gestured between the two of you. "Duh."

He managed a laugh—soft, nervous; you would have dared to say weak, even—and made quick work of all the leather straps except for one. "Just this one," he murmured, distracting you with a kiss and a couple of fingers hooking in the band of your underwear. "Please?"

Your breath hitched, and you nodded and pulled him close, his hips nestling between yours and the growing tent in his pants more than a little evident. "Move with me a little," you whispered, easing him into a rhythm as he rocked his hips against yours. "Just, keep"—a shudder, and you braced your hands on his chest—"just keep looking at me."

He did, one hand beside your head and the other guiding your leg around his waist, holding it there, and a particularly hard roll of his hips—whether intentional or not—yanked a moan from your throat. He actually stopped for a moment, looking at you as if to question whether he'd actually gotten that reaction out of you. And he had. He really had. It was all you needed to tug him back down, back into another kiss, back into that rhythm of hips and moans and sighs.

"Stop," he whispered after a while, half-hoarse as he sat back on his knees; he was straining against his pants, and there was a wet spot on the front from where you'd been. You couldn't help but blush at hit, and at the way his chest heaved with each breath—the way _you'd_ made him do that. But he only smiled and shook his head. "Nothing bad. Just don't want to, uh. Finish too early. Or, y'know. In my pants."

"Gods, please don't. At least don't let me be there when you have to explain it to Ignis."

"Can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Can you not talk about Ignis when I'm about to ask if I can go down on you?"

You actually felt a dull throb between your legs at his words, or maybe at the sight of him: half-lidded eyes, slightly swollen lips, curiosity and consent and need etched into his features. And you nodded, wiggling out of your underwear and kicking it off your ankle.

Maybe this was why it made sense to be like this with Prompto. He didn't gawk at your nakedness, and he didn't come onto you like a man possessed. He hung somewhere in the middle, nudging your knees apart and starting with a kiss to your lips, then your neck, your shoulders, all the way down to your navel. Each one reverent. Each one toeing the line of hunger.

Or maybe it was because as soon as he pressed his cheek to your inner thigh, he started laughing and said, "Oh, hi there, opening!"

And you threw your head back and laughed with him, hearty and loud and completely off guard when he pressed a kiss to your core. And the laughter died down, melted into shivers instead, and Prompto kept kissing, every bit the opposite of the way you'd just been. "Thought you said you were gonna shave?"

You squirmed, either at the sensation or out of embarrassment. "Only had time to trim."

He smiled and gave a little shrug—"I kinda like this better, I think"—and pressed his mouth to you, arms coiling around your thighs.

It was times like these that you remembered, delightfully so, just how strong Prompto was. He held you in place like that, testing everything he probably knew, or had researched to some capacity. The only thing was that he switched between them so quickly that you didn't quite have the chance to decide on what you liked best—at least, until he lifted his head to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue, eyes serenely closed. You arched into his touch, heels planted firmly into the mattress, and he gave you just enough leeway to rock up against his open mouth.

The other thing was that once he cycled through and figured out what you like, he took his time. Drew out everything he learned. He pressed his face against you, kissed from top to bottom to top again, flattened his tongue with long, languid strokes, closed his lips around you and hummed and sucked as gently as he could. You fell apart like that, moaning his name and a string of pleas into the open air, with his mouth on you and his hands pushing your thighs apart despite how much you writhed under him.

You fell back against the bed, covering your face with a pillow—Astrals above, he made you _come._ Prompto was still kissing your thighs, easing you down from the high; you could feel his smile against your skin, and you didn't even have to try for it. "Your legs are _shaking,_ " he said, half laughing, half in awe, and it was then than you felt the quiver of your thighs as you tried to keep your knees propped up. You'd be able to walk after, right? Because you'd heard more than enough stories about people getting railed so hard that they wobbled when they walked, like that one song on the radio, and—

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, seeping into your thoughts, his voice thick with marginal satisfaction. "Your lips, I mean."

Well, maybe another joke would lighten the mood. "Didn't you just—"

"The ones on your _face,_ " he added, and when you pulled the pillow back you saw he'd nearly curled into himself with laughter. His face was glistening with a sheen of your wetness, from his chin all the way up to the tops of his cheeks, and he leaned up to hover over you.

This time it was your turn to giggle, and his turn to question you. "What are you laughing at?" 

"I can _smell_ me! Like, on your face!" And you really could. It was heady, and sharp, and in any other situation it probably would have made you squirm, the anticipation of tasting yourself on another's tongue. But at any other time, it might not have been a novelty.

Prompto's eyes widened. "What? What do you smell like?"

"You were just there!"

His laugh fell into step with yours, and he dropped his head against your chest, shoulders shaking. He lifted it again, the tip of his nose dragging along your skin, and he was looming over you, all lean muscle and lanky form, dropping soft, quick kisses to your mouth. Enough to smell, but not to taste. "You okay?" he whispered between them.

You nodded. "Yeah."

"Sure?"

"Yeah." Your fingers skimmed the length of his arms and waist, finding purchase in the ridges of his biceps and the strap of his belt. "Are _you_ okay?"

Prompto smiled—"Yeah"—and put all of himself into kissing you again, leaning down until his body was almost flush against yours. With a tug and a pause for permission, you managed to undo the belt of his pants, fumbling with the zipper and the button, and your stomach might have fluttered a little when his hand covered yours to take over. Somehow he managed to kick them off while he was still kissing you, and in your mind, that was the hottest thing he'd done all night. Well, second hottest. The grinding was still pretty good.

"Want me to return the favor?" you murmured against his lips, more of a slur than a question, and when he settled against you again it took everything in you not to buck up against the hard line of him in his boxer shorts. "I don't know how, but—"

"Like I knew?" He kissed along your jaw, and gave a flick of his hips for good measure, and hummed appreciatively at the choked moan you let out, the way yours moved forward on instinct. "Don't worry about it. Maybe next time."

Maybe next time. Prompto was already planning for a next time. Or hoping, more like.

"I'm gonna... take these off, okay?" he said, a little less certain of himself now. "Just, don't laugh?"

"Why would I laugh?" you asked, but he was already pushing his boxer shorts down, shaking his foot to kick them off his ankle, and he was sitting in front of you on his knees. Naked. Prompto was _naked,_ and you had no idea where you were supposed to look. At his face? At his body? At his—

"It's, uh." You cleared your throat. "Stiff?" What the hell did you know about sizes? Maybe he was bigger than you imagined, but that was probably because _all_ dicks were likely bigger than you imagined. Not that you'd ever seen one in real life—and you were pretty sure the time you accidentally caught that one guy peeing in the woods didn't count. Still, you couldn't help but stare, and rub your thighs together to stave off the fresh pulse that bloomed between them, the anticipation that that. Was going. _Inside_ you.

"Um. Yeah." Prompto rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. "It's supposed to be."

"Can... I touch it?"

He turned back to you, his gaze mapping out the length of your body, teeth sinking deep into his lower lip. Then he nodded, and guided one of your hands to curl around the shaft. He slumped forward a bit, a jagged sigh escaping through clenched teeth, and he rocked his hips against your hand, following your rhythm. He was all soft breaths, muscles tense under his skin, eyes shut tight and Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, like he was trying to hold something back. You'd never seen him so raw before. Not even in a fight.

"Next time," you murmured with a gentle squeeze to the base, "I wanna watch how you do it."

Honestly, you expected him to smack your shoulder at the mere suggestion of him touching himself at all, let alone in front of you. Or, on some level, you expected him to quirk his lips at your own implication of a next time. You _weren't_ expecting the sudden jackhammer of his hips into your palm, or the way his mouth fell open and let out a moan that you felt shoot straight to your legs, and out to the rest of your body. "Yes, _yes,_ " he breathed, and you weren't sure if he was agreeing with you, or urging you to keep going. You didn't find out, either, because apparently his next instinct was to bend down and kiss you, tongue plunging into your mouth and rolling against your touch with all the urgency of someone teetering on the edge.

So you let go of him, in spite of his whines in protest, and eased him through the kisses, whispering against his lips whenever you had the chance to. "I don't want you to come too fast," you said, "and _definitely_ not till you're inside me. Okay?" At his frantic nod, and the twitch of his cock at the crevice of your thigh, you smiled and ran a hand through his hair, already a little damp and falling into his face. "You okay?"

Prompto bit his lip and nodded again, trembling above you. "Y-yeah."

Your brow furrowed. "Sure...? Cause you're shaking, and—"

"It's cause I want to be... y'know."

You swallowed, thickly, and gave him the warmest smile you could manage. "Tell me anyway."

He rested his forehead against yours at first. Spoke the words so close to you that you could swallow them, could feel his lips brushing against yours every time they moved. "It's cause I wanna be inside you... okay?"

You were still smiling—"Okay"—and rummaged through one of the drugstore bags, hazarding a guess at what his size might be. You were still laughing at the fact that he got one of everything because he couldn't decide. Prompto was still laughing because _you_ were still laughing, but he silenced himself with little kisses to your cheek and jaw, the farthest he could reach from his position. With a little fumbling on his part, he managed to rip the foil packet open and roll the condom on, and of course, his first reaction was to toss both hands in the air with a wide smile and that silly victory theme he hummed so often after a hunt.

"You're such a weirdo," you told him, fishing a bottle of lubricant from your nightstand and tossing it from hand to hand.

"Yeah," he shot back, "but you're the weirdo who's going to _sleep_ with this weirdo. So who's the weirdo, really?"

"It's still you! You just called yourself a weirdo!"

"Gimme that!" he laughed, tapping the back of your hand and catching the bottle in one of his, nudging you to lie down. Without ceremony, he up-ended the bottle, coating a couple of fingers, and watched you carefully as he lightly pressed one to your entrance. "Let me know if it hurts?"

It wouldn't—you'd gotten in enough practice on your own time—but you nodded anyway, and he pulled a gasp from you as he slid one inside. "How's it feel?" you managed, spreading your legs a little more to accommodate him and resisting every urge to buck up for more.

Prompto gulped, pulled out, pushed back in. "Hot."

You laughed, and he shuddered—gods, he must have felt you clench around him. "I asked how it felt, not how I look."

"It's the same answer," he protested under his breath, and he sighed against your neck in time with your own soft whimpers, sliding in a second finger, his thumb resting lightly on your clit. "You're wet," he said, and he sounded strained. Hoarse, like he was knocking back curses, or like he never believed he'd actually say those words out loud.

"I'm supposed to be," you began to say, but he crooked his fingers just slightly, thumb pressing a little harder, and a groan came out instead as you fisted a hand in his hair. Where the hell had he learned about _that?_

Apparently he was just as surprised as you were. "Holy—Gladio mentioned that once, but I didn't think it would actually _work!_ "

"Of course it—works— _ah_ " You melted at the touch, moving in time with him, an arm locked tight around his neck, breath fanning out against his skin every time he circled and pressed that spot inside you. Your lips were right against his ear, spilling whines and moans and swears he'd probably never let you live down once dawn broke.

You could practically hear the grin in his voice when he spoke. "Feels good?"

"Uh huh, yeah—"

"You ready for the D?"

You blinked, turning to him as he pulled his fingers out, and ignored how much your body wished he'd put them back. "Y-yeah. But, Prompto?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't ever call it 'the D' in bed again. Like. Ever."

"Well, what am I supposed to call it?"

"I dunno! Dick, cock, anything that doesn't make you sound like a self-assured frat boy."

"What about 'purple-headed love spear?'"

"No! Where did you hear _that?!_ "

Prompto nearly fell off the bed with how hard he was laughing, so much that he wheezed and clapped his hands together. "It's in that paperback book Gladio keeps hidden in his pillowcase, but you can never, _ever_ tell him I told you that." He composed himself after that, shaking his head and clearing his throat, and for all your late-night conversations, for all the things you never thought either of you would admit out loud, you didn't think you'd ever seen him so unsure of himself before. "Are you, uh... ready?"

You watched him for a while, tried with looks alone to kill whatever was killing his security, and settled for cradling his cheek, for a long, soft kiss before you lay back and pulled him with you. "Yeah," you whispered. "I'm ready."

Truthfully, your stomach was full of too many butterflies to count, and your heart was pounding at unprecedented rates. But all the same, it was Prompto. You could be ready for him. It only made sense to be. _Why not him?_

He took a deep breath, even though you were pretty sure _you_ were supposed to be doing that. Lined himself up with you, had the foresight to guide himself with a hand. Another breath, and he pressed inside, an inch at a time.

Honestly, whoever told you that it was supposed to hurt your first time around was a lying bastard. Either that, or their partner didn't have the forethought to treat them properly. All those poor people... And here you were, dealing with discomfort at the most. A sense of foreignness, thicker and longer and _fuller_ than whatever your own fingers achieved, but your breath still hitched, and your fingers still curled tight into your sheets, and you still bit your lip hard and willed your body not to push him back out. To relax. Relax.

"You okay?" Prompto whispered; he was close enough to search your eyes, the way only he really knew how.

You swallowed once he'd bottomed out, hips flush against yours, and nodded. "Yeah."

He sighed, seemingly in relief, a wide smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Sure?"

You smiled back, released your grip on the sheets and let his fingers edge their way between yours. "Yeah."

When he moved, it was as slowly as his body would allow; he worked his way out and in, little by little, until only the tip pressed against you, and slid in with as fluid of a stroke as he could manage. "So you get used to me," he said, already panting against the underside of your jaw. "Does it feel okay?"

"It feels like you're cutting a pie like that. Like, you know how Ignis cuts into stuff?"

He groaned and dropped his head onto your shoulder. "What did we say about Ignis?"

You laughed, squeezed his hand, delighted in the way he seized up and slammed his hips into you without a second thought. "You're not going down on me, though."

"It's better," he said, voice cracked with want as he picked up a rhythm, slow but steady. "It's better than going down on you."

"Yeah?"

" _Yeah—_ "

It was sort of like having an out-of-body experience, lying there with your legs around his waist and his hips rolling like that. Like you weren't even sure that it was you, in that moment, trailing your free hand down the muscles in his back, or trying to meet his thrusts with your own, or shuddering and whining whenever he latched his mouth to your skin. Was this what people talked about when they talked about "losing your virginity" or "the peak of intimacy?" That moment where you were on the outside, watching yourself be taken in spite of every nerve ending standing at attention, every inch of skin aching to be touched? How were you ever supposed to communicate _that?_

Before you could let yourself think any further, Prompto made a grab for your thighs, holding them apart as his forehead bumped against yours, so all you could do was look at him and let your breaths mingle. You were barely aware of how much strength he was using to hold himself up, and you couldn't help but moan once the realization hit. "Good?" he asked; his nails bit into your skin with all the anticipation of your answer, but the rest of his body didn't show it. He was too busy finding other angles, other rhythms, cycling the way he did before.

You nodded, and breathed, "Good," and you didn't think you'd ever seen him smile so wide. Seen him so proud of himself.

"Good," he repeated, and his face twisted with a groan and a particularly hard thrust, and then, "Are you close?"

"Almost," you sighed, arching off the bed at the sudden twinge in your body, the coil in the pit of your stomach. "Y-you?"

"Yeah." It was the only thing he could say, looming over you like that, and his hand slammed into the pillow above your head for purchase as he picked up his pace. It was the only thing you could register above the rhythmic creak of your bed, the push and pull of him inside you, the fullness as it came and went and left you almost breathless for more.

"Touch me," you told him, and his gaze flickered up to yours.

"Where?"

"Here, here—" You scrambled to guide his free hand between your legs, to press them in hard, tight circles against your clit. But the instant he did, you were shaking underneath him, a mess of high-pitched whines that shifted from _here, here_ to _there, right there, fuck—_

He came first, with a broken shudder and the final pound of his hips against yours, and he slowed, pressed every part of him to every part of you as he rode it out. Hip to hip, chest to chest, mouth to mouth. You rolled back against him, urgently, gasped a plea when he came up for air, and his fingers were back on you, and he was still inside you, hips gentle and hands frantic, desperate to pull you onto the other side with him.

"C'mon," he whispered to your breaths, muffled your moans with a kiss. "C'mon, come." Like he should have been begging instead of you, in spite of a newfound bravery, or a loss of filter.

That was how you came undone: a vise grip on his hair as you yanked him close for a kiss, spaced-out sighs in time with every new wave of pleasure, the rake of your nails against his shoulder blades as he pressed his lips to your cheek, your forehead, your neck. A bang. A whimper. A grounding.

Your breath steadied, and you slumped back against the bed, and Prompto followed you. Still hovering. Still inside. " _That's_ what it feels like?" he said, once he caught his breath.

You looked at him incredulously. "That's the first thing you say after sex?"

"Well, what was I supposed to say?"

"I dunno. Wow?"

"Okay." He smiled, his hair damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead, and kissed you with the confidence you'd known he had locked away somewhere. "Wow."

You grinned, to match him, and rolled your eyes. "Doesn't count. The moment's over."

"Well, I can't have sex with you _again._ "

"Not right now, you can't."

His eyes lit up at that, and his smile widened. He gave you another kiss, only leaving you long enough to ease out of you and tie off the condom, and crawled back into bed with you, parting your bedroom curtains to let the streetlight in along the way. "You okay?" he asked, pulling you close enough that your legs tangled with his of their own accord.

You tried to kiss him, but missed, lips landing on his chin. "Mmhmm."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

"Is it weird?"

"Little bit."

"Not so weird that you wouldn't wanna do it again?"

"Nah." You were preoccupied with trying—and failing—to comb his hair into its original style with your fingers. "You?"

The look on Prompto's face was nothing short of a friendly kind of adoring, and he leaned forward to bump noses with you, eyes shut, a peaceful smile gracing his lips. "I'm okay."

"Glad it was me?"

"Glad it was you. Couldn't be happier about it." 

"Not my boyfriend?"

"Not your boyfriend." Even still, he'd draped an arm over your waist, fingertips trailing along the dip in your back, and he kept dropping kisses anywhere he could reach. "Your friend, who likes this, with you."

Not _just_ your friend, you noted. "I have an idea," you murmured.

"Mm?"

"You should text Gladio."

" _Um._ " Prompto sat bolt upright and looked at you like you'd grown an extra head. " _That's_ friend group suicide."

Your response was a grin up at him, self-assured. "Know what else is friend group suicide?"

"What?"

"Pillowcase books that talk about 'purple-headed spears.'"

Prompto opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it again. Like a damn trevally.

"Astrals above," he breathed. "You're a _genius._ "


End file.
